For Want of a Broom
by silentlyatnight
Summary: Autumn 1988: Percy can fly but knows his family can't afford a broom. Oliver owns an amazing broom but needs some extra training. Minerva McGonagall is just looking for a good Keeper to win the Quidditch Cup. [Perciver pre-slash]


Written for the QLFC, Season 6, Round Nine.  
Position: Keeper  
Position Prompt: main character - Minerva McGonagall  
Word Count: 1704  
Beta(s): TheCrownprincessBride (Thank you!)

Go Wanderers!

A/N depending on your own headcanon about Percy and Oliver's first years of school, it may be considered somewhat AU, I guess…  
Set in September/October 1988.

* * *

The shadows of the night quickly ran away as the sky lightened. A range of different color shades was painting odd figures on the rosy vault of Heaven — mythical creatures gracefully flying up into the sky at dawn: glowing red clouds resembled a flock of flamingos and burning phoenixes, dancing to meet the sun.

A dim haze, which the first shy, pale sun rays made look all shiny and iridescent, permeated the Forbidden Forest and was bouncing off Hogwarts walls, retreating into the dark, cold depths of the Black Lake.

Minerva, warmly wrapped up in her tartan hooded cape, her hair still down on her shoulders, deeply inhaled the crisp and clean air, enjoying the serene atmosphere. Only a breath of wind made the now orange and brown leaves rustle, but nothing else moved — everything was quiet, the students still in their beds.

Suddenly, the scream of an owl broke that almost mystical peace. Minerva tensed, searching for a better balance of her feet on the ground, and considered reaching for her wand; something, or someone, had clearly startled the owl, and she didn't want to be caught off guard, not with a castle full of children that she felt the constant urge to protect. Unless, of course, that someone walking out of the _Forbidden_ Forest was a student — Merlin save him, in that case.

She narrowed her eyes.

The lonely figure was walking slowly, their head nervously turning left to right. He — after squinting some more, Minerva had determined it looked like a boy — was cradling something in their arms. Almost reverently. That, she had no doubt about. She easily recognized the gesture and the object: it was a broomstick. As Quidditch tryouts would take place soon, it was easy to guess what the wayward student had done. She stood there for a moment, unsure, before spotting the scarlet and gold scarf around the student's neck — a second-year if she was not mistaken. If it'd mean having one more valid member to their team, well, Minerva could let it go this time. Merlin knew they needed more dedicated people to win the Quidditch Cup this year.

 _Just this once_ , she told herself as she made her way back to the secret passage to her room. It was not the boy's fault if she had had trouble sleeping and had woken up early, catching him.

Turning back to be sure the boy had safely made it to the castle too, she could swear the sun rays had made his head shine red. She only knew of a family with that hair color, and they all played Quidditch masterfully.

 _Very, very good._ Minerva rubbed her hands in anticipation.

.x.

The next morning, Minerva hid near the clearing where the third Weasley boy was most likely to train. _To be sure he doesn't harm himself_.

She had to wait only a few minutes — it was about three hours before dawn, she realized, impressed — before a racing broom appeared in front of her eyes. She felt a bit guilty for spotting it before she did its lucky owner, but there was no way she wouldn't notice that beauty, even as she wondered how the Weasleys could afford it. But the thought lasted less than a second for the boy quickly got on his broom and soared, apparently weightless.

Minerva stared in awe as he performed some intricate maneuvers in the air, his lean body at ease up there. They had perhaps little to do with Quidditch, but they spoke of freedom and happiness, and that was beautiful to witness. All sort of responsibilities seemed to always find the third Weasley boy, what with tutoring his housemates or patching up his reckless older brothers. He deserved a break.

As Mr. Weasley raced towards the clouds, she quietly slipped away, her mind whirring: a Seeker? A Chaser? Definitely not a Beater. Perhaps not even a Keeper.

She made a point not to interfere with the boy's training after that, carefully avoiding being on the grounds before late morning. If she didn't see him in the Forbidden Forest, she wouldn't have any proof to punish him.

Her _friendly_ rivalry with Severus, though, compelled her to check the tryout roster at least once a day. And the more she stayed without reading the name of Percy Weasley on it, the more her impatience grew. Sure, she always saw him in her classes, and he always looked well and concentrated, always turning in his assignments on time. And, oddly enough, never leaving Oliver Wood's side.

Secret smiles, pats on each other's back, shared things, heads bent close together… She had only ever had two other students that she'd dare define inseparable — it still hurt to think of two of her most brilliant and mischievous students.

She'd be cautious around Mr. Weasley and Mr. Wood too if they weren't so well-behaved and perfectionist, not a stain on their school careers. Not yet.

She didn't understand.

.x.

The tryout registration deadline was fast approaching, and there was still not a sign that Percy Weasley was even remotely considering signing up, apart from a few essays filled with unusual bad grammar and an even less usual lack of crucial details and a general carelessness. She had had no choice but to summon him in her study, then.

"I'm very disappointed, Mr. Weasley," she said as soon as he sat down.

The boy balled his fists and bowed his head, making himself as small as possible on his chair.

She sighed. "You're aware your last assignments have been below your standards." Her tone turning slightly less stern, her forehead less scrunched up against her will, she continued, "Other Professors have noticed the same. We don't deem the classes you're taking too difficult for you, we merely think — and we all agree — you're distressed."

Mr. Weasley quickly glanced at her, his face pale and tense, like he was being eaten alive from the inside.

"Mr. Weasley, if something's been bothering you —"

The boy squirmed under her firm stare, opening and closing his mouth a few times.

Minerva waited patiently.

"You think —" He breathed in. Deeply. "The thing is... Imathief."

 _What?_ Shocked, Minerva could only conjure two cups of tea, the gesture unconscious, and put one under his nose as her mind tried to process his words. That was not possible. She couldn't believe it. She had never received complaints about it. She would have known if —

He was clearly as surprised as she was, his hand flying to cover his mouth, his eyes wide and moistening. "I-It doesn't m-matter," he muttered, blinking.

"When you're twelve years old, everything feels too huge, too heavy, doesn't it, Mr. Weasley?" She idly waved her wand to make a sugar bowl and two spoons appear. "I'm sure there's an explanation to that outburst."

He took his cup, resting it on his knee, but showed no interest in drinking his tea. He nodded, but his eyes never left the floor, nor did his mouth open.

"I see," Minerva said. "Well, I can't force you to confide in me, but —"

"The broom," Mr. Weasley said. "Oliver's broom. I've been stealing it each night, earlier and earlier each time."

That explained the bags under his eyes and his failing grades.

"Are you going to expel me?"

"On the contrary. I'd rather have you on the Gryffindor team, actually."

"Oh, but Oliver is great. We've been training each afternoon and evening. It's like playing with my little brother." His expression turned melancholic, his tone low as if he was talking to himself. "He'll be a great Keeper."

Minerva didn't ask who he was talking about. "I can get you a broom, you know."

"No!" Mr. Weasley stood up, and for the first time, she realized he'd grow into a really tall man, just like his father. His eyes were glowering. "I thank you for your time, Professor, but I do not play Quidditch. I don't even like it. My siblings do; _they_ need brooms."

"Mr. Weasley —" She should have known.

"I don't," he said through gritted teeth. "Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to make up for lost time and do better in my classes, as expected from me."

"Percy," she called as he walked away.

He never turned.

His straight shoulder and rigid shoulders as he walked away haunted her dreams that night.

The next day, she caught him throwing Quaffle after Quaffle at Mr. Wood at dawn. Not one made it past the wannabe Keeper. Percy raised his thumbs at his friend.

Oliver Wood's name appeared on the tryout roster a few minutes before the deadline, neatly written by what Minerva suspected was Percy's hand.

She'd have never wanted to understand.

But one thing she knew for sure. Never again would a student of hers be unable to fly for the mere lack of a suitable broom and a misplaced pride. She'd fix it somehow.

And if she was just that little bit softer around Percy Weasley, her hand always finding a cookie for him, or if she noticed the way Oliver Wood's touching always turned more comforting whenever a match was scheduled, it was easy to pretend like more important tasks demanded her attention, not to feel like she was being biased.

For the Deputy Headmistress was known for being a woman of order and discipline, and Minerva McGonagall was competitive and would do anything for Quidditch, but Minerva, the Marauders' Minnie, loved her children and would always support them in any way they let her.

She knew Mr. Wood played for Mr. Weasley, his strength and determination born from friendship and affection. And the proud, fond expression Percy Weasley always wore around Oliver Wood told her anything she needed to know.

It was clear he had done this for his family as much as he had for his friend, even if only Wood seemed to be aware of it. And, despite Minerva wishing she could mention something to Molly, she never would as the young Weasley seemed to be okay with how things were, Wood's arm around his thin shoulders.

In the end, that was all that mattered.


End file.
